
FT MEADE 
GenCol 1 


'V-/ , '• ■>: * ' 

i&Msh 


'■'rj 


Ne w Y o r k 

R. H. RUSSELL, 










LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

ChapTEZ^Copyright No. 

ShelL.W\S-2-54S 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



































. j 

































































































































I * 









































































































The Slambangaree 
and 

Other Stories 






The' Slambangaree 

AND 

OTHER STORIES 


y 

BY 

V MI 


r; k. munkittrick 



NEW YORK 5 ?- 0 

R. H. Russell 

1897 




> 


These stories are reproduced through 
the courtesy of The Century Company, 
Messrs. Harper and Brothers and 
Messrs. Keppler and Schwartzmann. 

copyright 1897, 

BY 

ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL 


To 

Malcolm and Cameron 







Contents, 


PAGE. 

>/The Slambangaree, . . 7 

Mr. Gobbler’s Story, . . 23 

^ My Small Dog, . . . 35^ 

V'Willie Hay and the Calf, . 43 

v The Peasant King, . . 55. 

j The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye, 67 
Romance in Porcelain, . 75* 

y'THE Reformatory Rooster, 81 

^Wishbone Valley, . -91 

yThe Turtle’s Story, . . 105 * 










































The Slambangaree. 


The other night Reginald was tossing about in 
his little bed, unable to go to sleep. The dull 
monotonous ticking of the clock fell upon his ear 
in a way that drove him almost mad, and the rain 
pattering upon the window-pane added to his mis- 
ery, and made him wish for the light of morning 
as he had never wished for it before. And when 
the trees moaned in the wind, it filled poor Reg- 
inald’s mind with dire forebodings, and caused him 
to bury his curly head deeper in the pillow to 
deaden the weird refrain that rippled in the blinds 
with a sort of fiendish playfulness. 

And then he heard a soft footfall on the carpet, 
and, looking up, saw the strangest creature he had 
ever set eye upon standing grinning by the bed- 
post. At first Reginald was so frightened that he 
could say nothing ; but when he noticed that the 
creature didn’t move, and that his grin could not 
hurt him, he found his voice, and said, “ Please, 
Mr. Robber ” 


8 


The Slambangaree. 

“ Did you say robber ? ” asked the Presence, 
with angry emphasis. 

“ I did,” replied Reginald, trembling violently ; 
“ but it was all your fault. I meant to say Mr. 
Robertson, but you cut me short before I could 
pronounce the last syllable.” 

“ I will then pardon you,” replied the Presence, 
which continued quickly, as if to catch Reginald in 
a lie : “ What did you intend to say after robber ? ” 

“ I intended to say,” replied Reginald, still trem- 
bling, “ Mr. Robertson, can you tell me what time 
it is ? That clock doesn’t strike, and I cannot sleep. 
If I thought you to be a thief, I would ask you not 
to take my new locomotive or boxwood tops.” 

“ Very good,” replied the Presence, as it took 
the grin off its face, and holding an end in each 
hand, proceeded to stretch it this way and that, un- 
til it was a yard long. 

“ Why, what a singularly large smile you have ! ” 
said Reginald, who by this time had partially re- 
covered his composure. “ I never saw anything 
like it before.” 

The Presence evidently felt complimented, and 
proceeded to entertain Reginald further. It fas- 
tened one end of the grin to the bureau, and walked 
to the opposite side of the room, with the other end 
in its hand. 


The Slambangaree. 9 

“ Oh, don t,” cried Reginald ; “ it might break ! ” 
But just then the Presence let go of the end it 
held in its hand, and the grin flew across the room, 
and settled down to its size when in repose, on the 
bureau. 

“ Oh, please put it on again,” pleaded Reginald ; 
“ because it is so becoming, and when it is off, 
you look so sad and homely.” 

So the Presence readjusted its grin, and looked 
just as it did when Reginald had first beheld it. 

“ Will you kindly tell me what you are ? ” asked 
Reginald, who was really at a loss for a question. 

“With pleasure,” replied the Presence; “be- 
cause I am always ready to show myself in my true 
colors, which are warranted never to fade or wash 
out, and I am always ready to submit myself to 
the strictest critical scrutiny.” Then the Presence 
drew itself up proudly, and sang, to a lively meas- 
ure : 

“ In reply to your question, so natural, I 
Shall be happy to make you a truthful reply, 

And inform you that while I am roaming, care free, 
I’m the sprite of the pudding, the Slambangaree. 

“ Of the pudding of plum, when you’ve eaten too 
much, 

And you drop into sleep as the pillow you touch, 

Oh, you tumble about, and you snore, and you see 
Awful things, all produced by the Slambangaree. 


io The Slambangaree. 

“ But as now you can’t sleep, this occasion I take 
All my antics to play on you while you’re awake ; 

And until your plum-pudding’s digested, ah, me 1 
You can bid no farewell to the Slambangaree. 

“ But now, if it is just the same to you, I will drop 
into plain every-day prose. You see, it is just this 
way, to put it in a condensed form : Myself and 
my fellow-Slambangarees are the sprites— or the 
fiends, if you will— of the canned plum-pudding. 
From being slammed and banged around so much 
in our cans we gain our name of Slambangaree. 
Now, you see, to put it more clearly than I could 
do in song, after you have eaten too much plum- 
pudding, against which I exhort you to refrain (for 
it is better to be temperate in all things), you fall 
asleep, and have awful nightmares — dream you 
are falling off houses, and all that sort of thing. 
It is the mission of the Slambangaree to bring 
about this condition of things. But as you cannot 
sleep to-night, I, the Slambangaree representing 
the plum-pudding you have eaten, have come to 
give you your nightmare while awake. My 
brother Slambangarees are taking care of the 
others who devoured the rest of the plum-pud- 
ding, and not until all that pudding is digested 
shall we be free disembodied spirits.” 

Here the Slambangaree took off its grin and 


The Slambangaree. 1 1 

wiped its mouth, after which the grin was read- 
justed with great care. Then it said, “ I will now 
see what you have in your pockets, for I am a little 
curious. ” 

Then, while Reginald felt very anxious about the 
precious things in his pockets, the Slambangaree’s 
eyes became larger, and shot out of its head and 
across the room, seeming to be attached to the 
ends of long wands. 

“ Those are the roots of my eyes,” it remarked, 
playfully, as it shot its eyeballs into the pockets of 
Reginald’s trousers, and sang : 

“ Two boxwood tops herein I see, 

A sling-shot and a knife, 

And a tin horn that unto me, 

With its uncanny witchery, 

A burden makes of life. 

“ Here are two soldiers made of lead, 

And here a little boat, 

And seven agates, blue and red, 

Likewise the hind leg and the head 
Of a green candy goat.” 

Then the Slambangaree withdrew its eyes, as if 
satisfied with the result of its investigations, and, 
as it did so, noticed Reginald’s drum lying on the 
floor. No sooner had it seen it than the roots of 
its eyes suddenly lengthened, and it began to play 


12 The Slambangaree. 

a solo on it with its eyeballs. As the rumpy-tum- 
tum filled the room, Reginald thought the noise 
would alarm the house and bring some one to his 
rescue. But in this he was mistaken. The Slam- 
bangaree played on until weary of the sport. 

“ How long is this going to last ? ” asked Regi- 
nald. 

“ Until the pudding within you is digested ; you 
must have patience " 

“ I would rather have some pepsin tablets,” said 
Reginald. 

“ I suppose so,” replied the Slambangaree ; “ but 
you must never be upset by yearning for the 
thing you haven’t, or you never will be happy. I 
can only leave you, as I said before, when the 
pudding is digested. I will therefore leave you by 
degrees. The better your digestion, the sooner 
you will be rid of me. Now for the fun ! ” 

Here the Slambangaree turned itself upside 
down and danced gracefully all over the ceiling. 
While Reginald was looking on in open-mouthed 
wonder, the Slambangaree reached down from the 
ceiling and lifted him out of bed in its arms and 
capered all over the room with him, but never 
bumped his head, although it floated under the 
bed with him, and jumped from the mantel-piece 
to the clock and from the clock to the bureau with 


The Slambangaree. 13 

great rapidity. When it dropped Reginald back 
into bed, it said, 

“ That was only to hurry your digestion.” 

“ I would greatly prefer to let it take its time,” 
replied Reginald. 

Here the Slambangaree, not noticing what Regi- 
nald had said, took the top-cord from the astonished 
boy’s pocket, and seating itself on the clock, threw 
one end of it into the water-pitcher. In another 
instant it pulled out a great fish, which, when re- 
leased, flew about the room like a bird, for its fins 
were wings. 

As soon as Reginald had recovered sufficiently 
from his astonishment to be able to speak, he ex- 
claimed, “ But you didn’t have any bait ! ” 

“ The button on the end of the top-cord was the 
bait,” said the Slambangaree, as it watched the 
fish wiggling about in the air. 

“ What kind of a fish is that ? ” asked Reginald. 

“ That,” replied the Slambangaree, “ is a Cape- 
codger. Did you ever hear a fish sing a song in 
notes of candy ? ” 

“ I never did,” replied Reginald. 

Then the Slambangaree turned to the Cape- 
codger, and said, in a tone of authority, 

“ Sing, Sir Fish ! ” 

The fish opened its mouth very wide and sang : 


14 The Slambangaree. 

“ As I’m a fish of good sound sense, 

Permit me, sir, to say 
It is a strange experience 
To swim around this way. 

I much prefer the coral caves 
Beneath the bounding sea, 

And to disport upon its waves, 

And wriggle in my glee. 

That bureau there is not a rock, 

This air is not the brine. 

Oh, grind me up in yonder clock 
For fishballs sweet and fine, 

But do not keep me swimming here 
All day, and thirsty, too, 

Or I shall have to shed a tear, 

And that would never do ! ” 

What surprised Reginald was that while the 
Capecodger’s words could be distinctly under- 
stood, each note was a pellet of candy, that fell 
from its mouth upon the carpet. When the Cape- 
codger was through, it descended, and, much to 
Reginald’s disgust, devoured all the candy that 
had fallen upon the floor. 

“That candy that it has just swallowed,” re- 
marked the Slambangaree, “ is merely reserve am- 
munition for its next song.” Then turning to the 
Capecodger, the Slambangaree continued : “ Of 
course you must not be kept swimming in the air, 
and I know it would never do to have you shed a 
tear. But I will not put you in the works of the 


The Slambangaree. 15 

clock, and grind you up in its machinery, as you 
suggest, for fishballs, after your kindness in sing- 
ing us a nice little song, instead of excusing your- 
self on the threadbare ground of having a sore 
throat. But you must give little Reginald a ride 
before you return to the pitcher.” 

The Capecodger was so anxious to be back in 
its native element, that it lost no time in swim- 
ming under Reginald. When they were up in the 
air the Capecodger wagged its tail in great glee, 
and swam all around the room, just grazing the 
pictures and the clock, but doing no damage. 

“ It’s just like being in a boat,” said Reginald*, 
as the Capecodger went down under a chair with* 
him without touching the rungs ; “ it has a regular- 
sea motion, and I’m not frightened a bit. But £ 
wish I could have the Capecodger all the time ; it 
would be nicer to go to school on than a bicycle, 
and then I could go way up in the air, like a kite. 
And every once in a while could ask it to sing, 3 
swirling symphony of candy.” 

But just then Reginald was back in his bed, and 
the Capecodger was back in the pitcher. 

Then the Slambangaree took one of the box- 
wood tops from Reginald’s pocket, and tossed it 
in the air a few times, and then threw it against 
the ceiling. Instead of descending, it remained on 


The Slambangaree. 


16 

the ceiling, where it spun at a great rate, and, 
instead of humming, repeated the multiplication 
table so fast that it would , finish twelve times in 
about four seconds. Then it spun so fast that it 
set all the room and the furniture whirling at the 
same rate. As the pudding sprite whirled with the 
rest, its grin increased until its head seemed to be all 
grin. Finally the Slambangaree grew smaller and 
smaller, until it was so small that it vanished into the 
top, which still whirled away at an awful rate. And 
when Reginald thought he was rid of his goblin 
visitor, the top suddenly began to increase in size 
until it was as large as a barrel, when it suddenly 
burst, and out popped the Slambangaree, leading 
a curious monster, the like of which Reginald had 
never seen or dreamed of. Its mouth opened like 
a door, and its eyes slid up and down like win- 
dows. And it had two heads, one at each end. 
And it could move with equal grace and swiftness 
in either direction. It ran around the room, and 
what seemed strangest of all was that the room 
grew larger to accommodate the antics of the mon- 
ster. Occasionally it would raise one eye like a 
window-sash, and curious birds would fly forth, 
and, after fluttering around, dart to the other end of 
the monster, who would throw open an eye to admit 
them. As the Slambangaree deposited the box- 


The Slambangaree. 17 

wood top in Reginald’s pocket, it pointed to the 
monster, and said, 

“ That thing is a Cariftywhifty.” 

“ What can a Cariftywhifty do ? ” asked Regi- 
nald. 

“ What can a Cariftywhifty do? ” repeated the 
Slambangaree. “ Why, a Cariftywhifty can eat 
you, and that is what this Cariftywhifty is about to 
do.” 

Then the Cariftywhifty chased Reginald into a 
corner, and took him into its mouth as if he were 
a raw oyster, and soon had him beneath its teeth, 
which were like the keys of a piano, and played 
tunes while it was eating. When Reginald reached 
the inside of the Cariftywhifty’s teeth he found 
that he had not been hurt ; and when he realized 
that he was being swallowed he was greatly as- 
tonished to find that the monster’s throat consisted 
of a stairway, down which he walked into its 
stomach, which was a beautiful garden. Boxwood 
tops were spinning on the limbs of trees, and the 
place was lighted even at night by the Carifty- 
whifty’s eyes. The only time the place was dark 
was when the unique monster closed its eyes. 
When the garden was suddenly darkened for a 
moment, and then illuminated, it indicated that 
the owner had just winked. Reginald knew that 


1 8 The Slambangaree. 

all this garden was in his own room, of course, but 
he didn’t know how he was going to gain his free- 
dom. But he wandered down the main path, see- 
ing many curious sights, until he was chased by a 
number of bull-frogs of great size, that jumped 
long distances and turned somersaults with ease. 
As these bull-frogs were made of flapier-mach£> 
they had no sense of feeling, because when Regi- 
nald stepped upon one of them it only laughed. 
They said they would put him in a box and feed 
him on flies if they could only catch him. This 
caused poor Reginald to redouble his efforts, and 
he was almost exhausted when he reached the 
throat stairway at the other end of the Carifty- 
whifty. Up these steps he bounded in safety, and 
was soon under the teeth of the monster, that 
chewed him and discoursed a merry tune with its 
musical teeth at the same time. 

In a moment Reginald was in his bed again, 
looking at the Slambangaree, that was now so 
small that the poor worried boy knew the plum- 
pudding must be almost digested. Finally the 
Slambangaree entered the mouth of the Carifty- 
whifty, and the latter, bounding across the room 
for a flying start, dashed through the window, and 
disappeared without breaking the glass or making 
the slightest noise. 


The Slambangaree. 19 

It must have been at that time that Reginald 
knocked upon my door. When he was admitted 
he sat on the side of my bed, and told me all 
about the Slambangaree, the Capecodger, and the 
Cariftywhifty, at the same time saying that if he 
ever ate plum-pudding again he only hoped that 
he would have his nightmare while asleep, and not 
while lying wide awake. I have written his story 
down just as he told it to me, in the hope that it 
may be a warning to other boys to always eat just 
plum-pudding enough, and never too much, lest 
they meet with a midnight adventure similar to 
that of little Reginald’s. 



Mr. Gobbler’s Story 

































Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 


Down behind the old farm-house, on the top- 
most limb of the scraggly but picturesque button- 
ball, sat Mr. and Mrs. Gobbler, huddled closely 
together, looking across the fading fields in silence. 
Beside them sat Willie Gobbler and his dear little 
sisters Susan and Araminta. It was the children’s 
first autumn, as they had been hatched into the 
world some time during the previous month of 
May. They looked upon the glowing foliage with 
lively delight — just as they would have looked 
into a toy-store window if they had been little 
boys and girls. 

“ Oh, isn’t this perfectly lovely, papa ! ” shouted 
Araminta, flapping her glossy wings as a little 
girl would have clapped her hands. 

Mr. Gobbler in reply only shook his head 
gravely while a tear dropped from Mrs. Gobbler’s 
eye, for they were both thinking of Thanksgiving 
and its awful possibilities. 

“ Don’t annoy your father when he is trying to 


24 Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

rest and collect his thoughts,” said Mrs. Gobbler,, 
petulantly. 

“ I am not annoyed by a little thing like that,” 
replied Mr. Gobbler, as he stroked his great red 
wattles as if they were side- whiskers. “ I am too 
much accustomed to annoyance to be worried by 
so trifling a thing. Haven’t I had fire-crackers 
set off under me when I was asleep on the wa- 
gon-pole? Haven’t I had water thrown on me 
when sitting on the grass suffused with pleasant 
dreams ? ” 

“ But, papa,” asked Susan, “ have you ever had 
a fox try to gather you from the perch ? ” 

“ Once, Susan, and only once,” replied the patri- 
arch, “ and that was when I was a little boy, with a 
tail no longer than that of a worn-out duster. The 
fox stood on his hind legs and reached up and 
grabbed my tail feathers, and I thought my end 
had come ; but by a great effort I flew out of his 
mouth, and since that time I have always perched 
upon the highest limb I can find. Remember, my 
dear little children, that although foxes are very 
cunning they cannot climb trees.” 

Here the happy children looked upon their father 
with pleasant smiles, and the old gentleman waved 
his wattles, and looked into the hazy distance as if 
very proud of his great wisdom. While Mr. Gob- 


2 5 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

bier was thus lost in deep reflection, Willie asked ; 
“ Come now, papa, won’t you tell us a nice little 
story before we tuck our heads under our wings 
for the night ? ” 

“ I have told you all the stories I know long 
ago, and I’m feeling very sleepy.” 

“ Then tell us one of the old ones ; tell us the 
one about the little pig that danced a jig while the 
farmer played the fiddle,” pleaded Willie. 

“ Oh yes,” chimed in Araminta — “ the little pig 
that danced a jig while the farmer played the 
fiddle. It is such a nice Thanksgiving story.” 

“ See here,” replied Mr. Gobbler, severely, 
“ don't allude to Thanksgiving again, unless you 
want my feathers to fly out by the roots, and my 
wattles to lash themselves into spoonfuls of cran- 
berry sauce.” 

“ Then tell us the story, papa dear, and we shall 
all be good little turkeys.” 

Mr. Gobbler then looked furtively about him, as 
if anxious to find some loop-hole of escape. He 
had told them the story so many times that he 
deeply regretted the fact that he had ever related 
it at all. And the worst of it was that it was a 
Thanksgiving story that he could only enjoy telling 
in May. So while he sat in silence, hoping the 
little turkeys would fall asleep, one of them said : 


26 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

“ Come now, papa, you can’t get out of it in that 
way ; we want to hear the story of the little pig 
that danced a jig while the farmer played the fid- 
dle.” 

“ So, seeing there was no use trying to evade the 
subject further, Mr. Gobbler began : “ Once upon 
a time there was a happy-go-lucky farmer who 
had a cunning little pig ” 

“ Pardon me, papa, but the last time you told the 
story the pig had a black spot on one side of his 
face.” 

“ Haven’t I often told you,” broke in Mrs. Gob- 
bler, petulantly, “ that you shouldn’t interrupt any 
one, especially an elder, when speaking ? You 
must remember this injunction if you would be 
polite and refined turkeys when you are grown.” 

“ But, mamma dear,” protested Willie, with a 
crestfallen air, “ I began by saying ‘ pardon me.’ ” 

“ I had forgotten that when I spoke,” said Mrs. 
Gobbler, with an apologetic smile. Then she 
returned her husband’s glance, and said, “ Now 
tell them the story, Orlando.” 

“ Once upon a time,” continued Mr. Gobbler, 
“ there was a happy-go-lucky farmer who owned a 
pig with a black spot on one side of his face. The 
little pig and the farmer were very fond of each 
other, and whenever the tiller of the soil gave 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 27 

Nathan that was the pig’s name — a nice red apple, 
he would be thanked in a bland sugar cured smile 
that rippled over and gilded the black spot on the 
happy porker’s face. Now the reason that the 
farmer liked the little pig was all because the pig 
was fond of music and could dance ; and Nathan 
was equally fond of the farmer because the latter 
played on the fiddle. The farmer would stand by 
the pen and fiddle, while the pig danced about in 
the airiest manner he could. Some men play by 
note, and others by ear, but this farmer played ac- 
cording to the pig’s feet.” 

“ What ! Pig-foot music ? ” asked Araminta. 

“ There you go with another interruption,” cried 
Mrs. Gobbler. 

“ Pig’s-foot time would be more correct,” said 
Mr. Gobbler, without appearing to notice the in- 
terruption ; “ for even as Nathan danced to the 
time of the music, so did the farmer play to the 
time of Nathan’s feet, while he watched them as 
he performed as if they had been notes. When 
Nathan stopped dancing, the farmer had to discon- 
tinue playing, and as he was very fond of his fid- 
dle, he would give the little porker another apple to 
resume. The pig was very fond of good things, 
and when he had had all the apples he wanted he 
would not dance until the farmer had given him a 


28 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

lump of sugar in advance. Now the farmer had 
also a very fine old gobbler of gentle demeanor, 
whom he called Alexander, and this gobbler was 
so fond of music that he would perch delightedly 
on a bar of the pen while his owner fiddled and 
Nathan danced. He would also sit on the win- 
dow-sill of the farm kitchen and watch the fiddle 
as it hung on the wall, and turn his glances upon 
the farmer, as if to ask him to play. This was 
usually too much for the agriculturalist, who loved 
to perform upon his favorite instrument, and the 
result was that he would take it down and move to 
the sty even in the moonlight. Now you know, 
my dear little children, that it is very wrong for 
one to become a slave to anything, whether it be a 
fiddle or a mania for collecting postage-stamps, 
because such slavery tends to take one’s mind off 
other things of greater importance. This farmer 
became so great a slave to the fiddling habit 
through the encouragement of Nathan and Alex- 
ander that he neglected his work upon the farm. 
He would argue that if he fiddled all one day and 
did two days' work in the cornfield on the mor- 
row, a proper average could be maintained. But 
on the morrow the gobbler — I am ashamed of him 
as an ancestor — would glance at the fiddle, and the 
pig would squeal for music, and the poor farmer, 


29 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

through lack of will-power, would go to the pen- 
side and play cotillon after cotillon after the pig 
had started him with the motion of his feet. Then 
Alexander would march up and down with martial 
pride, for sometimes he couldn’t stand still.” 

“ Do you think the gobbler was as fond of music 
as the pig ? ” asked Willie. 

“ Which do you mean ? ” observed Orlando 
Gobbler, Esq., sarcastically ; “ was the gobbler as 
fond of music as he was of the pig, or was the 
gobbler as fond of music as the pig was ? ” 

“ I didn’t intend to be rude, papa ; but when I 
asked the question, I wanted to know if the pig 
and the gobbler were equally fond of music, that 
was all.” 

“ Well, I cannot tell you as much as I should be 
happy to on this point, because I only know the 
story as it was told me by your grandmother, when 
I was beneath her wing. It was noticed by many 
of his neighbors that the farmer was fiddling too 
much and farming too little for his own welfare. 
The potatoes needed hoeing, and the tomato bed 
was choked with great weeds. The meadows re- 
mained unmowed, and the melons were rotting on 
the vines. It vras predicted that the crops would 
not fail from the effects of drought, but from too 
much fiddling. The poor farmer with the ungov- 


3 ° 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

ernable weakness for music was very sharply crit- 
icised by some and pitied by others, who regarded 
his case as a very pathetic one. Many of them 
tried to reason with him, and point out to him the 
error of his way. They advised him to farm during 
the day and fiddle in the evening. But their ef- 
forts were all in vain. As soon as he arose he 
would set out for the sty of the dancing pig, and 
fiddle until his arm was sore ” 

“ What was the upshot of it all ? ” asked Ara- 
minta. 

“ I told you before not to interrupt me,” replied 
Mr. Gobbler, with a glance that showed how pro- 
voked he was. “ When you break in on me in 
this way I lose the thread of the story, from which 
alone you may learn the fiddler’s fate.” 

Little Araminta was greatly pained at this re- 
buke, which made her pout. But the pouting 
soon disappeared, and her father continued : 

“ Everything went well with the fiddle and 
wrong with the farm, until the crops were in such 
a condition that only immediate attention could 
save them. Still, the fiddling farmer continued to 
perform upon his instrument as if his crops were 
safely stored or profitably disposed of. At this 
time, on a fine moonlight night, a bear sauntered 
into the barnyard, and having secured a good 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 31 

hold upon the pig, bore him swiftly away to the 
woods, and devoured him in the bosom of his 
family. On the morrow the farmer was prostrated 
with grief, because, you know, he had depended 
entirely upon the time of the pig’s feet for his 
ability to carry the tune. Without the pig he 
couldn’t play ” 

“ Didn’t you say the gobbler Alexander was also 
very fond of the fiddle ? ” asked Willie. 

“ I did,” replied Mr. Gobbler. 

“ Then what did he do ? ” 

“ Why, he moped about the doorway and 
watched the farmer as he looked dolefully at the 
fiddle on the wall,” responded Mr. Gobbler ; “ and 
one day the farmer thought he saw the gobbler 
smiling, and this he concluded was a wicked smile 
of triumph at his woeful state of mind. So he 
threw a pot-stick at the poor bird, and almost 
knocked the feet from under it. The gobbler re- 
paired to the shadow of a convenient gooseberry- 
bush to think out a suitable plan of retaliation 
and in about an hour, when the farmer had gone- 
forth to look for rain, the musically inclined bird: 
stepped into the kitchen, took the fiddle and bow' 
from the nail on the wall, and flew with both to 
the top of a high tree in the middle of an adjoin- 
ing wood. When the farmer knew that his fiddle 


3 2 


Mr. Gobbler’s Story. 

had gone, probably to join the pig, he went to 
work to forget his trouble. He hoed and raked 
and weeded, and it was not a great while before 
his farm was in a flourishing condition. He saved 
all the crops, and that winter his family had plenty 
of johnny-cake and pumpkin pie. He repented 
his weakness for the fiddle ; and one day in the 
rosy autumn, when the mellow light of Indian- 
summer glimmered on the fields, whom should the 
farmer happen to see but the music-loving gobbler 
sleeping on a sapling. You know, the gobbler 
kept out of his way after the theft of the fiddle ; 
and when the farmer saw him, it reminded him of 
his foolish weakness for his stringed instrument. 
And when he connected these painful thoughts 
with his prosperity that shone on every side in 
groaning bin and larder, he killed the gobbler and 
had a Thanksgiving feast.” 

“ And now, my dear children,” said Mrs. Gob- 
bler, “ the moon is rising, and it is time to retire 
for the night. One, two, three ! ” 

At the word “ three ” they tucked their heads 
beneath their wings, and were soon lost in pleas- 
ant dreams. 









My Small Dog 




My Small Dog. 


He is only three or four months of age. In 
short, just budding into doghood — that sweet 
period of life when the canine mind is rosy with 
hope, and the future is as radiant as a summer 
sky. 

Across the horizon of his fair young life floats 
no sullen cloudlet to disturb him. He is as happy 
as he can be. Nothing to do but drink milk out 
of a blue saucer and sleep on a pretty cardinal rug 
all day. He is so happy that he can not keep 
still. He runs from one room to another, and the 
tinkle of his nails on the oil-cloth is as the patter of 
rain on dry leaves. When he reaches the garret 
he hears the door-bell ring, and, after he has cocked 
his ears to make sure that it is not a mere caprice, 
he discourses a mock heroic bark-a-doodledoo and 
rushes for the stairs as fast as he can to see who 
it is. He only descends about three steps on his 
little plump baby-feet ; for, when he has gone that 
distance he falls in the excitement, and rolls the 


36 My Small Dog. 

rest of the way, while heart-rending howls fill the 
air and tell the hearer how much he is frightened 
and how little he is hurt. 

He never remains in one spot two minutes un- 
less asleep. First he will recline on one side and 
curl into a seemingly comfortable position, only to 
arise, stretch himself and lie down on the other 
side. Having done this, he will place his chin be- 
tween his fore-paws and watch you with a sort of 
critical impertinence. And before you know it he 
will assume a playful mood, and scamper across 
the room to where you are sitting and try to jump 
on your lap, especially if he has just been running 
in the wet grass. 

He will only come to you when you don’t want 
him. When you call him, he suspects you of en- 
tertaining ulterior motives toward him. He walks 
up until within two or three feet of you, and then 
stands still and regards you suspiciously. As you 
stoop and extend your hand, he backs away, and 
finally runs under the table to elude you. 

When he acts in this way, you may rest assured 
that the little rascal has been up to some deviltry, 
and fancies you know all about it and desire to 
correct him. 

He is particularly odious in the eyes of the cook, 
who never loses an opportunity to sweep him out 


My Small Dog. 37 

of the kitchen on the broom. When she comes 
down in the morning to light the fire she misses 
every stick of kindling-wood ; which billets are 
found at intervals during the day in all parts of the 
house, from the garret to the cellar. 

He is the most mischevous little bow wow I ever 
met. He delights in taking things from where they 
belong and in forgetting to put them back. Spools 
of thread are taken from the work-box and chewed 
and pawed around, and finally left at the top of the 
stairway as a menace to your personal safety. 

He is a captious creature in many ways. He is 
frequently placed upon his haunches and neatly 
balanced, with a view to perfecting him in the art 
of sitting erect like a penguin. This makes him 
look disconsolate and sheepish, and as soon as the 
person teaching him leaves him to sit alone, he 
rolls over so clumsily as to give the impression 
that he would like nothing better than to learn to 
sit up, but that really he is incapable of it. Then 
he pretends that he has been hurt by rolling over, 
and looks appealingly at you to desist. 

He will not wear his neatly embroidered blanket, 
but will always manage to scratch it off or roll out 
of it as soon as he is alone and unobserved. Not 
long ago a fantastic military cap, fashioned out of 
a piece of newspaper, was placed upon his head. 


38 


My Small Dog. 

He appeared discomfited when held up to see him- 
self in the mirror ; and, as soon as put on the floor, 
he took that cap off with one blow of a hind-leg, 
in a manner that forever settled the fact that he is 
without martial ambition. 

Whenever I walk across the room he runs after 
me, and not infrequently holds the ends of my 
trousers legs in his teeth and allows me to drag 
him along on his feet. 

Whenever I put my hat on he runs around the 
table in wild delight, or up and down the hall at 
full speed, for he fancies he is to be taken for a 
walk. Nothing makes him happier than the pros- 
pect of a walk, and when he has walked so far that 
he is tired out, he expects to be carried home. 

His tail, or rather something like three-quarters 
of it, was removed several weeks ago, a connais- 
seur having said that it would prevent his having 
fits, and add also to his personal appearance. 
Now he wags what little tail he has left, and 
doesn’t seem to miss what was eliminated until 
he attempts to seize hold of it with his teeth. I 
have seen him move in a swift circle for minutes 
without securing it, much to his mortification and 
disappointment. 

One day we tied a small piece of meat to it, in 
order to exercise the dog, because he was becom- 


39 


My Small Dog. 

ing lazy. But he didn’t run very far. By a mad, 
impassioned wag he wagged the meat off, quickly 
devoured it, and looked as if he liked that kind of 
treatment immensely. After which he went out 
and ran across a number of garments bleaching on 
the grass, and covered them with his muddy foot- 
marks, in his great hurry to reach the fence to see 
a coach-dog that was passing. 










Willie Hay and the Calf 




Willie Hay and the Calf. 


Wille Hay was the only son of old Timothy 
Hay, the farmer, and he had so easy a time for a 
farmer’s son that he was dissatisfied with every- 
thing. It was the opinion of all Cloverville that 
Willie Hay was a spoiled boy, and the action of his 
father in sending him to school during those por- 
tions of the year when he could be of use upon the 
farm was freely admitted to be a piece of super- 
fluous extravagance that should be met with some 
swift and terrible punishment. 

But Willie Hay did not appreciate his rare good 
luck in being able to go to school while his ac- 
quaintances worked. His six hours of school each 
day were harder for him to bear than were his 
companions’ twelve or fourteen hours in the fields. 
He envied them what seemed to him their happier 
lot, because they didn’t have to study or think at 
all. To him a rainy day was a day of real sun- 
shine, for then he could stay at home and do 
nothing. Often he feigned sickness, and didn’t 
even say he felt well enough to go out after it was 


44 


Willie Hay and the Calf. 

too late to go to school, but willingly took any kind 
of noxious medicine offered, and gladly remained 
in bed all day. 

One day he was walking along the road on his 
way to school, counting the days that must pass 
before his summer vacation would arrive, when he 
saw one of his father’s spotted calves frisking 
about in the meadow and having a splendid time. 
He coaxed the calf to come to him by pretending 
to have something in his hand, which he persuaded 
the calf to imagine was of a very toothsome char- 
acter. When the animal came near enough, Willie 
caught hold of his tail, and started him on a run. 
It .seemed to him a most joyful sport to be towed 
around the field at the rate the calf was going, and 
he urged it on until he had the poor beast fairly 
jumping and prancing through the air. 

“ The calf has more fun than I do,” he said, 
“ and I might as well equalize matters by making 
him feel as mean as I do when I’m sitting in the 
schoolroom. I wish I could be the calf, and the 
calf me, for three months.” 

No sooner had he said this than he found himself 
running along as hard as he could go on four legs, 
while the calf was behind holding his tail with one 
hand and applying a stick with the other, laughing 
heartily at Willie’s frantic efforts to escape. 


Willie Hay and the Calf. 45 

“ It was all very fine when I was a calf, and you 
were a little boy, but now that 1 am a little boy and 
you are a spotted calf, I am going to have lots of 
fun. You are going to be a calf for three months, 
and if you are bought by the butcher before that 
time, and carved into cutlets and roasting pieces, 
why, of course, I shall continue to live on as Willie 
Hay. I am not going to tell any one that I am in 
reality a calf, and so no one will ever know it ; and 
it will be impossible for you to prove that you are 
not a calf, because you can’t talk.” 

Then the calf gave Willie a rap on the side 
of the head that made his ears flap wildly about, 
and grasping his tail with a firmer grip, followed 
in his wake as he went galloping about the pas- 
ture. 

Finally the calf drove Willie up to the fence, 
and then let him go. Willie retired to a safe dis- 
tance, and watched the calf as he walked school- 
ward with his books under his arm. As the calf 
was passing out of sight a swarm of black flies 
alighted on Willie, and bit him so severely that he 
was obliged to seek refuge in a pond near by. 

“ Oh,” thought Willie, as he saw his reflection 
in the water, “ this is terrible ! Here I have got to 
eat grass and cornstalks for three months, and if 
they want to kill me I can’t tell them who I am. 


4 6 Willie Hay and the Calf. 

And then, before the three months of my calfhood 
have passed, that boy may run away with a circus, 
or leave the town, or die a natural death, and then 
I’ll be a permanent beef. Pity the sorrows of a 
temporary calf.” 

Just then a strange dog came in, and chased 
Willie about until he almost dropped from exhaus- 
tion, and a moment later his father came along with 
a butcher to see if they could make a bargain. 
Willie could only reflect on the seriousness of his 
position, but could not make it known. He could 
feel himself turning into veal cutlets and calf-skin 
boots by inches. Great was his delight, however, 
when the butcher concluded not to buy him ; and 
when he saw the red wagon fade over the distant 
hill he felt much easier. 

Willie was then given some cornstalks for din- 
ner, and while he was eating them he reflected on 
what a good time the calf was having in compari- 
son ; for at that very moment the calf was sitting 
under a shady tree in the school-yard eating gin- 
gerbread out of Willie’s tin box. It was to him a 
great treat to be thus lifted out of calfdom, and 
changed into a human being. He made up his 
mind not to say a word about his being a calf to 
any one, and when the teacher called him a calf 
once during the day for something he had done. 


Willie Hay and the Calf. 47 

he half suspected that that person knew all, and 
was about to confess, but fortunately for himself 
did not. He was greatly pleased with school life, 
especially that part of it that is devoted to recess 
and baseball. 

The calf had to take several thrashings that 
were due Willie, but he did not mind them much, 
as he knew he could even matters with Willie by 
tying a hard knot in his tail on his return home. 
And there was another thing that filled the heart 
of the calf with joy, and that was that his three 
months’ existence as a small boy would cover Wil- 
lie’s vacation, and he could have all the baseball 
and fishing he could stand in that time, while Wil- 
lie was prancing about eating daisies and golden- 
rod. 

That afternoon when the calf walked into the 
house he saw Willie glaring at him through tho 
bars of the fence. 

“ I am going to advise father to salt you down,*' 
said the calf. 

This completely upset Willie’s peace of mind.. 
The idea of a calf’s advising a boy’s father to salt 
him down, and thus become an unconscious can- 
nibal, was more than he could bear. But what 
could he do ? It was impossible for him to utter 
a word in his own behalf, and he believed the calf 


48 Willie Hay and the Calf. 

would do all in his power to have him put out of 
the way and usurp his position, for he already knew 
him to be a mean, designing calf. Then, when 
Willie saw the calf coming out of the house with a 
large thick slice of bread generously spread with 
jam, his rage knew no bounds. 

Willie directed a vicious kick at the calf, evi- 
dently intending to reduce him to calf’s-foot jelly, 
but the calf dodged quickly out of danger. That 
afternoon the calf saw his parents walking about 
the pasture, but he treated them with great indif- 
ference, not deigning to notice them. Of course 
they didn’t recognize him as their son any more 
than Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Hay recognized Willie 
as theirs. And that night Willie had to sleep with 
the calf’s parents out in the barn, while the real 
calf slept upstairs in a nice cozy bed. 

Although Willie appeared in the semblance of a 
calf, yet did he possess his human intelligence. 
The only thing that made him helpless was that 
he could not talk or make his troubles known. 
One day the calf was taking a little stroll with old 
Timothy Hay, who never for an instant thought 
he was not talking to his son. 

“ I tell you what it is, father,” said the calf, 
pointing to Willie, “ that calf ought to be killed ; I 
am afraid of him.” 


Willie Hay and the Calf. 49 

“ Has he attempted to hurt you ? ” asked Mr. 
Hay. 

“ No ; but there is something queer about him. 
I saw him reading a sign about a strayed or stolen 
cow the other day on Webster’s barn ; and only 
this morning I saw him standing in his stall read- 
ing an agricultural paper. I am afraid we’ll have 
bad luck if we keep him.” 

Timothy Hay could scarcely credit the strange 
story of the calf, but the latter, in a whisper that 
Willie could not hear, asked Mr. Hay to step be- 
hind a fence. No sooner had he done so than he 
observed Willie through a knothole reading a cir- 
cus poster that had that morning been posted on 
the barn. And he knew that Willie was actually 
reading it, because he gave unmistakable evidence 
of understanding it by the peculiar smile that 
lighted his face. 

“ I’m not superstitious,” said Timothy Hay, 
“ but I believe that calf is bewitched, and I may 
have bad luck with the crops if I let him live.” 

“ It would be better to kill the calf than lose 
everything, and have to buy our vegetables in the 
village,” suggested the crafty calf. 

“ Indeed it would,” reflected Timothy Hay, 
“ and I think I’ll do it.” 

“ Oh, all is lost ! all is lost ! ” thought Willie. 


50 Willie Hay and the Calf. 

The calf was jubilant. He could see himself 
growing up in Willie’s shoes, and some day own- 
ing the farm. 

That evening Timothy Hay told his wife about 
the spotted calf being able to read. At first she 
thought that if the calf could read aloud he might 
be made useful in the long evenings of winter. 
But when she was told that the calf (that is, 
Willie) was bewitched, she immediately advised 
that he be killed and eaten. 

The killing of Willie was put off, however, until 
the passing of the busy season. The calf enjoyed 
Willie’s vacation greatly, and Willie came to enjoy 
eating grass as much as if it were pie. His exe- 
cution had been put off so long that he concluded 
it would be entirely forgotten, and that on the 
expiration of the three months he would be him- 
self once more. Finally the summer drifted by, 
and both Willie and the calf were very nervous, 
Willie believing that he would be killed and eaten, 
and the calf fearing that he would shortly be in 
his old position. 

One day when the butcher who came to kill the 
pigs had finished that job, Timothy Hay thought 
of the bewitched calf, and said he would like to 
have him killed. 

In a moment or two later Willie was hanging 


Willie Hay and the Calf. 51 

by a rope tied to a hind leg, and the calf was 
standing by smiling. The butcher turned to grasp 
his knife, and when he stepped up to perform his 
duty his surprise was unbounded to see a little 
boy hanging by an ankle, and a calf standing by 
on the barn floor. The butcher then believed the 
calf was bewitched, and without waiting to hoist 
him up, he killed him on the spot, while the little 
boy was released from the rope and restored to his 
family. He explained how he and the calf had 
been changed for three months, and how the time 
fortunately expired at the right moment to make 
everything pleasant for him. 

“ If the three months had not been up for ten 
minutes more,” said Willie, “ I should have been 
killed, and that calf would have inherited all this 
farm.” 

Of course Timothy Hay was more than de- 
lighted, and it is said that never after did Willie 
find fault with his lot, but took everything as it 
came and was happy. 




The Peasant King 









The Peasant King. 

One day a certain king grew weary of the lux- 
urious life he was leading, for one by one his 
every pleasure became monotonous, and at last he 
knew not what to do to make his life endurable. 

So he concluded that a sure way out of the 
trouble would be to discover how other kings had 
lived before him, and to ascertain what they did to 
gain happiness and peace of mind. Accordingly, 
he ordered a courtier to collect all the books con- 
cerning kings, both in history and fiction, and to 
read them aloud to him that he might collect use- 
ful information on the subject. 

The courtier gathered a great number of these 
volumes and read them aloud to the king, who still 
seemed to be at a loss for information regarding 
the secret of royal happiness. When the king 
had about given up in despair, the courtier came 
to an Eastern story of a ruler who had found hap- 
piness by changing places with a peasant. 

“ That will do,” said the king to the courtier ; 
“ I have tried almost every other plan to be happy. 


56 The Peasant King. 

but without success. 1 shall now try to find some 
peasant in my realm who would like to be king. 
In all my travels I have noticed how contented 
the peasants are. They seem to lack no require- 
ment of earthly happiness ; they are always sing- 
ing, even at their work, and I would give anything 
to be as happy as a peasant.” 

As the courtier attempted to go on with the 
story, the king held his hand up for him to stop. 

“ Close the book,” said he ; “I shall follow the 
example of the king in the story. There may be 
a peasant in my realm who thinks true happiness 
comes to those in power, and who could be in- 
duced to exchange his position in life for mine.” 

The courtier protested against such an experi- 
ment, until he thought the safety of his head was 
involved — and then desisted. 

On the following day, the king started out be- 
hind four white horses, in his best purple and 
golden crown, to exchange places with the happi- 
est man he could find. 

On an almost deserted road, he espied a little 
cabin under some large trees that almost screened 
it from view. As the carriage drew nearer, the 
king saw the occupant of the cabin digging in a 
patch. He seemed as happy as the birds that 
were singing on every limb ; and he himself sung. 


The Peasant King. 57 

while he pushed the spade into the ground and 
turned up the soft earth. 

When the carriage stopped, the man dropped 
his spade, and came to the fence to see what was 
wanted. 

The king stepped down and asked him some 
questions regarding the prospect of good crops in 
the country, and then said : 

“ I should be very well contented if I were as 
happy as you are.” 

“ And I,” replied the peasant, “ should be very 
happy if I were a king.” 

“ You are one,” replied the king, as he threw 
his robes about the man’s shoulders, and placed 
the golden crown upon his head. “ That is your 
carriage, and these are your servants, who will 
bear witness that we have changed places, and 
that I am the peasant.” 

The joy of the new-made king knew no bounds. 
He sat up in the carriage, with all the dignity of 
an old king. In his heart he fancied that he must 
be dreaming, and pinched his arms, and asked his 
attendants to stick pins in him that he might be 
sure he was awake. He thought of his great 
power with absolute glee, and felt supremely happy 
in the knowledge that he could make the country 
go to war, and cut off the heads of people who in 


58 The Peasant King. 

any way displeased him. What puzzled him most 
was the fact that he had ever been happy before, 
and he was at a loss to understand it. 

“ Whip up the horses,” he said ; “ I wish to 
reach the palace before sundown.” 

But, in reality, he feared that the old king had 
changed his mind, and might be running along 
the road to overtake them. 

When he reached the palace, there was little 
excitement, as all the inmates knew they were to 
have a new ruler, having been informed of the 
nature of the old king’s mission in the morning. 

That night he decided to have a grand banquet, 
such as a king should have. So he ate a most 
inordinate quantity of the richest dishes he could 
think of, and did not stop until almost midnight, 
when he retired. 

He was awakened several times before morning 
with nightmare, and passed so miserable a night, 
that he was tired and sleepy when it was time to 
arise for the day. While he was a peasant and 
worked hard year in and year out, he had never 
known any but nights of refreshing sleep. 

But this did not trouble him much. He con- 
cluded that he would soon become accustomed to 
royal banquets, and that would be the end of 
sleepless nights. No sooner had he disposed of 


59 


The Peasant King. 

this trouble, than it occurred to him that he had 
heard that it was a common thing for kings to have 
their food poisoned. Perhaps his food had been 
insufficiently poisoned the night before. In that 
case the servants would make sure to put enough 
in his coffee to kill him at breakfast. 

This was a terrible reflection, and it harrowed 
the king’s feelings in a way that they had never 
been harrowed before. But he went to his break- 
fast, determining that he would not touch the coffee. 
Then he concluded that they might deceive him 
by putting the poison where he would least sus- 
pect it. 

When he was a peasant, he never knew such 
fear as this. He finished his breakfast in great 
alarm. His agitation had been so great that it 
gave him a worried, pale look. 

“ Is Your Majesty well ? ” asked one of the 
courtiers. 

“ Why ? ” said the king. 

“ Your Majesty certainly looks very ill,” replied 
the courtier. 

Then the king was satisfied that he was 
poisoned. So he threw himself upon a lounge, 
clasped his hands to his forehead, declared he had 
been poisoned, and ordered all the servants to be 
beheaded if he should die. 


60 The Peasant King. 

Shortly after, he was satisfied that nothing seri- 
ous was the matter, and he went out in the garden 
to take a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t proceeded 
far, when he noticed some one following him. 
His follower was between him and the palace, and 
he could do nothing but depend upon himself in 
case of an attack. No matter where he walked, 
this man followed him, so he sat down to see if 
the straggler would venture nearer. But the man 
did not ; he stood still and watched. 

The king thought that he could never be at- 
tacked if he allowed his prospective assailant to 
know that he was watched. So he shouted for 
help, and in an instant a dozen servants were at 
his side. 

“ That man yonder is following me to kill me ! ” 
he cried, pointing at the man, who stood near. 

“ No, Your Majesty, he is not,” replied the 
spokesman of the servants. “ He is the man who 
follows you as a guard, to prevent others from 
killing or molesting you.” 

“ Is it then so common a thing for kings to be 
killed in this way, that it is necessary to have a 
constant guard ? ” 

His servants assured him that such was the 
case. 

This disturbed his peace of mind to such an ex- 


The Peasant King. 61 

tent, that he began immediately to question the 
absolute happiness of being a king. 

When he returned to the palace, there were 
hundreds of people waiting to see him, on all 
kinds of business, —people to have petitions signed, 
ministers with schemes of every description, so 
that the king’s head spun, and he didn’t have 
time to think. 

After he had been a king two weeks, he was so 
completely undone, physically and mentally, that 
he regretted the day he had given up his hovel for 
a palace. 

“ Perhaps the old king,” he thought, “ is as 
tired of my lowly habitation as I am of his crown. 
I shall go and see if he will exchange places with 
me.” So the king put on his finest robe and his 
crown, as the old king had previously done, and 
drove away in his grandest carriage. 

****** 

As soon as the old king had placed his crown 
on the head of the peasant, and had seen him 
vanish in the distance, he went out where the 
peasant had been digging, and continued the work. 
After he had worked half an hour, all the rheu- 
matic pains, of which he couldn’t rid himself as a 
king, departed. And he sang as merrily as the 
birds in the trees, and felt happier every minute. 


6 2 


The Peasant King. 

At dinner he had such an appetite that he enjoyed 
every morsel in a way that he had never done 
during his entire reign. 

That night he slept as he had never been able 
to sleep while burdened with the affairs of his 
country. He didn’t toss about at all, and he did 
not wake until the sun was high. Then he hur- 
ried down and had his breakfast while the birds 
hopped about the door, or sung in the rosebush 
by the window. 

“ I am as happy as a king is supposed to be,” 
he cried, “ and I should be happy to know that the 
present king, poor fellow, would ever be as con- 
tented as I am now.” 

And the old king worked on in perfect content- 
ment for days, feeling safe from the conspiracies 
of enemies, and on the best of terms with his own 
conscience, so that he was indeed a happy man. 

The garden was progressing finely ; and the 
new occupant grew happier every day, and saw 
nothing but sunshine. This continual flow of 
happiness was never disturbed until one night 
when the king-peasant had a terrible nightmare. 
He awoke fearfully agitated and in a cold perspira- 
tion — 

He had dreamed that he was a king again ! 

He hastily arose and lighted a candle to take a 


The Peasant King. 63 

look at the surroundings, to make sure that he 
was not in a palace and was not a king. He was 
afraid to go to sleep for fear the dream might be 
repeated. 

That very day, when he was working and sing- 
ing in the garden, he saw a great cloud of dust 
down the road ; and in a few moments, the car- 
riage of the king stopped at the gate. 

“ How is the garden growing ? ” said the new 
king. 

“ Splendidly.” 

“ Would you not like to give me my hovel back 
in exchange for your palace and crown ? ” 

“ I could not think of it ! ” said the old king. 
“ You must go to some one who has never been a 
king, if you want to make such an exchange. If 
you go on a little farther down the road, you may 
find some man who would be glad to wear a 
crown.” 

So the new king drove down the road, and 
asked the first laborer he met, if he would like ta 
be a king. 

“ No,” replied the laborer ; “ I was a king for ar 
few days, and that was enough for me ; I traded 
off my crown for this shovel and pickax, because 
the king who had given it to me for a small hut 
refused to trade back.” 


6 4 The Peasant King. 

The king rode on ; and much to his surprise, 
every man he met refused the unhappy monarch’s 
offer to make him a king, each one stating as his 
reason that he had already been a king for a 
greater or lesser period. 

It seems that every man in the kingdom had 
worn the crown at one time or another, and that 
the king, who was trying to exchange places with 
the humblest being in the realm, was simply the 
last man in the land to be cursed with it. 

Thus it w T as that the nation was filled with peo- 
ple who found the greatest happiness in the hum- 
blest spheres of life, and learned to be contented 
without nursing an ambition to be great or power- 
ful. 

The Peasant King had to rule all his life, for no 
one would exchange with him. And when he was 
bent and tottering with age, he would go to the 
bridge that commanded the main avenue of his 
domain, with an umbrella held over him to keep 
off the sun and rain, and persistently offer his 
crown to every passer-by. But no one would 
accept it ! 


The Vision of the King’ 

Bad Eye 





The Vision of the King’s 
Bad Eye. 


Once upon a time there was a queer old king 
who was very unhappy because of a defect in one 
of his eyes — a defect which he had endeavored in 
many ways to cure, but in vain. This defect, if it 
may be called such, was similar to the imperfection 
in a pane of glass which, when looked through, dis- 
torts objects upon the other side in a most gro- 
tesque and uncanny manner. But in the other eye 
everything appeared in its natural form. Conse- 
quently the king was very unhappy, because he 
could never rid himself of the impression made 
upon him by an ordinarily beautiful object which 
he had once observed with the defective eye. Over 
this organ he usually wore a sort of a bandage that 
everything might appear to him in its natural shape. 
When he fixed both eyes upon a person the effect 
would be a composite picture of beauty and ugliness, 
which was very annoying to him, because he was 


68 The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye. 

an optimistic person, and desired to view things in 
their most alluring light. Yet he was a man of 
more than ordinary curiosity, and frequently, when 
he had looked at a person only to discover that 
person to be very beautiful, the temptation to look 
out of the other eye, to see if his first impression 
had been correct, was too great for him, and he 
would slyly remove the bandage, to find the object 
of his vision a most hideous and grotesque person- 
age. 

Out of the abnormal eye a man would appear to 
be only half his actual height and twice his width, 
and animals and trees were distorted in the same 
manner. He would also come to grief in many 
ways, as his perspective was ’way at sea. He 
would step into the middle of a brook which seemed 
to be not more than a couple of feet wide, and in 
walking up and down stairs he would often fall, as 
the steps would ripple in every conceivable way, 
and appear to him to be where in reality they were 
not. An apple would seem to him to be the size of 
a pumpkin, and when he had eaten three or four of 
them he would consider his appetite too great for a 
healthy man, and consequently become greatly 
worried about himself. This was his chief reason 
for wearing a bandage over the eye which distorted 
all objects. 


The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye. 69 

“ Ah, what a terrible thing,” he one day said to 
a courtier, “ to look upon a mosquito and have to 
imagine it a chicken-hawk.” 

“ It must be horrible,” replied the courtier, sym- 
pathetically. 

“ Once,” said the king, “ when I was young I 
fled for dear life from a mule, only to discover, 
when I had fallen from exhaustion, that the mule 
was a rabbit. It was then I first took to wearing 
a bandage over my eye. I would give anything to 
be cured of this awful defect of vision. I wonder 
if there is any way out of it? ” 

“ I am at a loss to give Your Majesty advice,” 
replied the courtier, humbly ; “ but it seems to me 
you might be cured by having the eye removed.” 

The king was not particularly pleased by the 
suggestion of so dire an expedient, and frowned 
upon the courtier, who was sorely distressed by his 
master’s displeasure. In fact, the king became im- 
pressed with the idea that his courtier was making 
light of his misfortune, about which he was so 
sensitive, and forthwith dismissed him from the 
service. It soon became a subject which no one 
dared allude to ; and the king might mistake a 
chicken for an ostrich, or a tea-rose for a cabbage, 
without fear of correction. 

The king was unmarried, because he had long 


70 The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye. 

ago vowed that no woman should ever become his 
wife who did not appear perfectly lovely in the 
eye that distorted all objects. 

“ For,” said he, “ if she should look lovely in 
my sound eye I might still be mistaken. She 
might be actually more uncomely than she would 
appear in my good optic, and still not as distress- 
ingly uncanny as the other one would make her. 
Therefore she must be fair in my defective eye 
whom I wed.” 

Many a fair candidate had been suggested, and 
it was the opinion of every one whose opinion 
was worth anything that the king would never 
marry. 

At a considerable distance from the palace lived 
a woodchopper who was so ugly of form and fea- 
ture that every one was afraid to go near him, and 
if his wife had not been as ugly as himself she 
might have succeeded in securing another for a 
husband. Children ran past their humble, weather- 
beaten abode as if the place were haunted, and 
no one would associate with them. Now these 
people had a daughter who was so grotesquely 
ugly that beside her her parents seemed beautiful. 
The people about the country shuddered upon 
beholding her, and called her “ The Vision of 
the King’s Bad Eye,” and from looking upon her 


The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye. 71 

people began to feel a sympathetic appreciation of 
the poor king’s malady. There was no one char- 
itable enough to have a kind thought of her, and 
as she performed the functions of a drudge about 
the place she had little to cheer her life. 

Yet she didn’t know how ugly she was in ap- 
pearance, because her parents had become so 
accustomed to her face that they looked upon it 
only as one of beauty and grace, which must be 
the characteristics of all who are seen only through 
the spectacles of love. 

So when others told her brusquely that she was 
the vision of the king’s bad eye, she really thought 
they envied her her good looks, and paid no atten- 
tion to their many taunts. 

“ The king would pull his bandage over both 
eyes if he were to see you,” they would say. 

Still she worked away with a complacency that 
provoked her tormentors beyond measure. 

“ Why don't you go and let the King look at 
you, and see if you can spoil his good eye ? ” 
they would say. 

One day she replied, “ It will be time enough 
when the king sends for me.” 

And in this way it came to the king’s ears, and 
his curiosity regarding the wood-chopper’s daughter 
became so great that he did send for her. 


72 The Vision of the King’s Bad Eye. 

She appeared at his request in due time, and 
when he cast his good eye upon her he thought 
her anything but lovely. 

“ Isn’t she beautiful ! ” exclaimed the mother, 
proudly, with a smile that was pathetic. 

Then the king looked at her with the bad eye, 
and she was so fascinatingly ugly that she actually 
looked beautiful in it. 

“ What ! ” exclaimed the king, “ have my eyes 
changed places ! ” And then he continued, after 
he had looked at her again with each eye : “No, 
my eyes are the same. If she is homely in my 
good eye she is lovely in my defective one. She 
is the only lovely object my bad eye ever gazed 
upon ; I shall henceforth wear the bandage over 
my perfect eye, and be satisfied as I go through 
life, asking to see nothing else that is beautiful 
but her.” 

And ever after the day of the wedding the king 
wore the bandage over his good eye and was per- 
fectly happy. 


A Romance in Porcelain 






A Romance in Porcelain 


It was a very pretty as well as a very quaint 
and dainty porcelain tea-pot. It had a spout like 
the large claw of a cooked lobster, for it was very, 
very red, as were the rim of the cover and the staples 
which held the handle of wire delicately wound 
with fine bamboo. 

It was a small tea-pot, that was never regarded 
as anything but a pretty piece of bric-a-brac, and 
consequently never used as anything but an orna- 
ment. It was a brightly picturesque vessel, for it 
was embellished with a lovely landscape. Tea 
roses grew out of the grass, and a pretty bird 
could be seen in the foliage of the apricot ; and in 
the distance there was a strip of soft blue sky 
with a lily-winged ship on a deep green sea. 

On one side of the pot there was a beautiful 
Chinese princess embroidering queer birds on a 
frame, in the shadow of a mulberry. On the other 
side was a prince in loose, flowered garments, 
fanning himself with a bunch of leaves. The 


7 6 A Romance in Porcelain. 

prince had never seen the princess, nor the prin- 
cess the prince, because they were on opposite 
sides of the tea-pot. 

One day the old earthen tea-pot dropped off the 
table and was broken ; and, as little Amy hap- 
pened to have company, it was suggested that it 
would be a pretty idea to make tea in the orna- 
mental tea-pot. So it was taken from the cabinet 
that hung against the parlor wall, and put on the 
sideboard until time to make the tea. When 
placed on the sideboard, it was accidentally put in 
such a position between the beveled mirrors that 
the prince saw the princess. She looked up from 
the embroidery frame and smiled and the prince 
smiled too, for he was very happy. But he could 
not go around to the opposite side of the tea-pot 
to tell her how much he loved her. They could 
only exchange glances, and tell each other all they 
felt in the language of the eyes. 

“ Oh, if I could only sail around to her in that 
lily-winged ship on the deep green sea ! ” thought 
the prince. 

“ Oh, if I could only send him a message by the 
pretty bird in the apricot !” reflected the princess, 
as she looked up from her embroidery. 

But, just then the tea-pot was removed to the 
kitchen. The prince and princess appeared sad 


A Romance in Porcelain. 77 

and disconsolate when it was taken from between 
the glasses of the sideboard, where they had first 
become aware of each other’s existence. 

He stood looking sadly at the bunch of leaves 
he held in his hand, and she cast her eyes woefully 
upon the embroidery frame, where the roses and 
birds grew no more beneath her fingers. 

When the hot water and tea were put in, the 
whole tea-pot warmed into new life. For as soon 
as the tea began to draw, the bird in the apricot 
burst into an exquisite song, and the lily-winged 
ship on the deep green sea moved gracefully upon 
the waves. 

The prince and the princess smiled peacefully, 
and the grass became a fresh twinkling green, 
while the tea roses opened and exhaled their fra- 
grance until the dining-room seemed like a spicy 
garden. As long as the tea was warm enough to 
drink, the tea-pot seemed possessed of the spirit of 
May-time ; but as soon as the tea began to cool, 
the flowers and grass became duller, and the bird 
ceased singing in the apricot tree. 

But no matter how cool it became, the smiles of 
the prince and the princess were quite as joyful 
and sunny, because they were aware of each other’s 
existence, and of the fact that they loved each 
other. 


78 A Romance in Porcelain. 

So little Amy, after the tea party, put the tea-pot 
between the glasses of the sideboard, where the 
prince and princess had first seen each other. 
They seemed very happy, for the prince forgot all 
about the bunch of leaves he was using for a fan, 
and the princess, in the shadow of the mulberry, 
even more sadly neglected her embroidery. 

That very night there was an awful crash in the 
dining-room. The cat had jumped on the side- 
board in the dark, and knocked the fragile flowered 
tea-pot off. 

It was found smashed into a thousand bits. 
The lily-winged ship, the deep green sea, the tea 
roses and the mulberry-tree, were one indistin- 
guishable mass. But the prince and the princess 
were found side by side, smiling just as they had 
smiled when first their glances met. 

They were gathered by little Amy and put into 
a small box, and buried out in the garden under 
the apricot. And in the spring, she set a tea rose 
over it ; and whenever the tea rose blossoms and a 
bird sings in the apricot, she thinks of the little 
prince and princess, and drops a silent tear. 


The Reformatory Rooster 









The Reformatory Rooster. 


There was once a merry old farmer who de- 
lighted in playing tricks upon the various animals 
and fowls upon his place. His love for this kind 
of pastime was almost ungovernable, and he never 
seemed to weary of it. He would be beside him- 
self with joy when an opportunity presented itself 
to shake the chickens suddenly off the branches of 
a tree, like so many apples, and if he could think 
of nothing else to do, he would impale turnips on 
the horns of the cow that he might enjoy the efforts 
of the latter to satisfy her appetite with them. 

This sort of thing went on for a long while, un- 
til the pigs were afraid to eat the apples he tossed 
to them, for fear of becoming the victims of some 
well-laid joke. One day the old Shanghai rooster 
sitting on the rail-fence, soliloquized : 

“ I think it very mean that this farmer, to whom 
we all owe allegiance, should treat us in this way. 
We lay eggs for him, and give milk for him, and 
fill his winter’s barrel with pork ; and he seems to 


i 


82 The Reformatory Rooster. 

have nothing like a fair appreciation of us and our 
efforts for his welfare and happiness. And I feel 
sure that he should be taught a lasting lesson for 
the sake of his future. 

“ Of course he doesn’t know that I am a Friday 
rooster, and that I was hatched with my spurs on, 
and that with my spurs I broke the shell and 
walked into the light of day. And if he did know 
all these things, he would not know that through 
them I have only to wish, to make anything come 
to pass.” 

Thereupon the old rooster wandered into the 
kitchen to begin the reformation of the joking 
farmer. When he had stepped over the sill he 
heard the farmer say to his wife, “ Molly, don’t 
you think we had better have some baked beans 
to-night? We haven’t had any since the week 
before last.” 

“ They have been soaking all night,” responded 
the farmer’s wife, feeling glad of the pleasant sur- 
prise her words wrought on him, “ and in a few 
minutes they will be in the oven.” 

“ Aha ! ” chuckled the rooster, “ now is my time.” 

So he stood in the doorway on one leg, and saw 
the farmer’s wife put the beans in the stove, and 
when she opened the oven door about twenty min- 
utes later to see how they were doing she was 


The Reformatory Rooster. 83 

greatly surprised to find that they had burst into 
blossom. Her expression of bewilderment was so 
great that it made the rooster smile until he felt 
obliged to put his head under his wing lest his 
hilarity be observed. 

“ I declare to gracious,” she said, as she re- 
moved the pan and put it on the table, “ this is the 
queerest thing I ever saw ! All my beans are in 
full flower, and they seem to be growing. I won- 
der what kind of a scent they have ? ” 

As she bent forward to smell the blossoms the 
old reformatory rooster peeped between his feath- 
ers, only to see her draw back when they burned 
her nose, because they had not cooled. 

“ Gracious ! ” she said, as she rubbed her nose 
with her hand, having first dipped it in cold water. 
“ This is something I cannot understand.” 

Just at this moment the farmer came in, and 
when he saw the condition of the beans and heard 
his wife’s story concerning them he was dum- 
founded. “ Well,” he said, “ if our beans have 
been spoiled, I think it would be a good plan to 
kill the old rooster and stew him for dinner ; he is 
pretty old and tough, but I guess he’ll do.” 

So he picked up the broom to stun the reforma- 
tory rooster that was still chuckling in his wing at 
the idea. No sooner had he taken hold of the 


84 The Reformatory Rooster. 

broom than he began to sweep the floor with might 
and main. 

“ Why don’t you hit the rooster ? ” asked his 
wife. 

“ That is just what I want to do,” he replied, 
“ but I can’t ; I am sweeping in spite of myself.” 

“ I remember how he once set off fire-crackers 
under my perch,” said the reformatory rooster, 
“ and now it is my turn.” 

So the old farmer went on sweeping, and as the 
dust went out of the door the wind blew it in the 
window, and the more he swept the more the floor 
needed sweeping. Although exhausted, it was im- 
possible for him to relax his efforts. 

Just then some neighbors added to his mortifi- 
cation by dropping in and asking an explanation of 
his curious movements. 

“ I can’t stop,” he replied, as he swept on with 
renewed vigor. 

“ Why don’t you send for the doctor ? ” asked 
one. 

This question seemed to have weight with the 
reformatory rooster. “ Perhaps,” said the barn- 
yard troubadour, “ I am too cruel in keeping him 
in this sea of dust, and I will therefore have him 
go forth and sweep the farm a little.” 

Just then the old farmer ran out of the door and 


The Reformatory Rooster. 


85 


began to sweep the grass quite as hard as he had 
swept the floor. He was greatly annoyed when 
he noticed the cows laughing at his frantic efforts, 
for they stopped eating while he passed them, and 
seemed to enjoy his discomfiture very much, be- 
cause they could see he was having a terrible time, 
and they well remembered the pranks he had de- 
lighted in playing on them, such, for instance, as 
tying them together by the tails. 

Although very indignant at his position, which 
he was at a loss to understand, he did not realize 
just how absurd a figure he was cutting until he 
swept his way down to the pig-sty, and saw the 
pigs standing upon their hind-legs, with their fore- 
most members placidly folded over the top bar of 
the pen. They were grinning from ear to ear, 
and finally burst into shrieks, such as they utter 
when being killed. These shrieks of laughter 
seemed to shake the very hills, and the pigs were 
greatly rejoiced, because they well remembered 
how the farmer had given them apples filled with 
red pepper for the pleasure of hearing them cough 
and seeing them shed copious tears. 

“ Why don’t you stop sweeping ? ” asked one 
of the pigs, an old spotted patriarch, as soon as he 
could control himself sufficiently to speak. 

The farmer did not deign to reply, but swept on 


86 The Reformatory Rooster. 

down toward the turnip patch, where the old re- 
formatory rooster had proceeded in advance. 

On his way he passed under an apple-tree. This 
tree had a gaunt outspreading limb, and upon the 
end of it was a hard red apple. The tree took a 
deliberate aim, drew its branch back as far as it 
could, and threw the apple at the farmer, hitting 
him squarely on the nose. He could not loosen 
his hold on the broom to rub the injured member ; 
and when he began to sneeze, a large yellow tur- 
nip noticed his expression of woe, and by a great 
effort jumped out of the earth and knocked his hat 
off, which only increased his agony, while the re- 
formatory rooster chuckled in great glee, and a 
fallen tree, overcome with laughter, split itself into 
kindling wood. 

Sweep, sweep, sweep, went the farmer until he 
came to the pumpkins. Some of them were warty 
specimens, and seemed to have noses and ears. He 
soon noticed that those that had what looked like 
grotesque human faces were all on a broad grin. 
And when he made a desperate kick at one of 
them, it suddenly burst like a bombshell, and cov- 
ered him from head to foot with seeds and the 
golden filigree that constituted its inner pumpkin. 

The old farmer presented so woeful an appear- 
ance that the heart of the reformatory rooster was 


The Reformatory Rooster. 87 

at last touched, and he lost no time in turning the 
farmer about and sending him sweeping towards 
the house. The pigs and cows saluted him as he 
went by, and he felt greatly relieved when he 
reached the door and found that he could stand 
the broom in the corner and take a seat in the 
rocking-chair. 

“ The worst of it all was,” he said to his wife, 
“ that the animals laughed at me, and seemed to 
enjoy my misery.” 

“ But don’t you laugh at the animals and enjoy 
their misery every time you play a joke on 
them ? ” 

“ I do ; but I’ll never again play a trick on them, 
or do anything to make them unhappy.” 

The reformatory rooster felt very happy in the 
knowledge of the fact that he had succeeded in 
teaching the farmer so wholesome a lesson. 

“ As long as he keeps his word,” said the old 
fowl, with a smile of pleasure, “ I shall do all in 
my power to shield him from evil and misfortune. 
In short, I shall endeavor to be his guardian 
rooster.” 

And when the old farmer and his wife happened 
to look at the pan of blooming beans a little later, 
they were surprised to find that each of the flow- 
ers had turned to a golden coin, and the beans to 
a steaming hot plum-pudding. 







Wishbone Valley 









Wishbone Valley, 


The Thanksgiving feast had just ended, and 
only Donald and his little sister Grace remained at 
the table, looking drowsily at the plum-pudding 
that they couldn’t finish, but which they disliked 
to leave on their plates. 

When the plates had been removed, and the 
plum-pudding taken to the kitchen and placed 
beside the well-carved gobbler, Donald and Grace 
were too tired to rise from their chairs to have 
their faces washed. They seemed lost in a roseate 
repose, until Grace finally thought of the wish- 
bone that they intended to break after dinner. 

“ Come, now, Donald,” she said, “ let’s break 
the old gobbler’s wishbone.” 

“ All right,” replied Donald, opening his eyes 
slowly, and unwrapping the draperies of his sweet 
plum-pudding dreams from about him, “ let’s do 
it now.” So he held up the wishbone, and Grace 
took hold of the other end of it with a merry laugh. 

“ Here, you must not take hold so far from the 


92 Wishbone Valley. 

end, because I have a fine wish to make, and want 
to get the big half if possible.” 

“ So have I a nice wish to make,” replied Grace, 
with a sigh, “ and I also want the big end.” 

And so they argued for a few minutes, until 
their mother entered the room and told them that 
if they could not stop quarrelling over the wish- 
bone she would take it from them and throw it 
into the fire. So they lost no time in taking it by 
the ends and snapping it asunder. 

“ Hurrah ! ” exclaimed Donald, observing Grace’s 
expression of disappointment. “ I’ve got it ! ” 

“ Well, I’ve made a wish too,” said Grace. 

“ But it won’t come true,” replied Donald, “ be- 
cause you have the little end.” 

And then Donald thought he would go out in 
the air and play, because his great dinner made 
him feel very uncomfortable. When he was out in 
the barnyard it was just growing dusk, and 
Donald, through his half-closed eyes, observed a 
gobbler strutting about. To his great surprise, 
the gobbler approached him instead of running 
away. 

“ I thought we had you for dinner to-day,” said 
Donald. 

“You did,” replied the gobbler, coldly, “and 
you had a fine old time, didn’t you ? ” 


93 


Wishbone Valley. 

“Yes,” said Donald, “you made a splendid 
dinner, and you ought to be pleased to think you 
made us all so happy. Your second joints were 
very sweet and juicy, and your drumsticks w r ere 
like sticks of candy.” 

“ And you broke my poor old wishbone with 
your little sister, didn’t you ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ And what did you wish ? ” asked the gob- 
bler. 

“ You mustn’t ask me that,” replied Donald, 
“ because, you know, if I tell you the wish I made 
it would not come true.” 

“ But it was my wishbone,” persisted the gob- 
bler, “ and I think I ought to know something 
about it.” 

“ You have rights, I suppose, and your argu- 
ment is not without force,” replied Donald, with 
calm dignity. 

The gobbler was puzzled at so lofty a reply, and 
not understanding it, said : 

“ I am only the ghost, or spirit, of the gobbler 
you ate to-day, but still I remember how one day 
last summer you threw a pan of water on me, and 
alluded to my wattles as a red necktie, and called 
me ‘ old Harvard.’ Now, come along ! ” 

“ Where ? ” asked Donald. 


94 


Wishbone Valley. 

“ To Wishbone Valley, where you will see the 
spirits of my ancestors eaten by your family.” 

It was now dusk, and Donald didn’t like the 
idea of going to such a place. He was a brave, 
courageous boy on most occasions, but the idea of 
going to Wishbone Valley when the stars were 
appearing filled him with a dread that he didn’t 
like to acknowledge even to the ghost of a gob- 
bler. 

“ I can’t go with you now, Mr. Gobbler,” he 
said, “ because I have a lot of lessons to study for 
next Monday ; wait until to-morrow, and I will 
gladly go with you.” 

“ Come along,” replied the gobbler, with a pro- 
voked air, “ and let your lessons go until to-mor- 
row, when you will have plenty of light.” 

Thereupon the gobbler extended his wing and 
took Donald by the hand, and started on a trot. 

“ Not so fast,” protested Donald. 

“ Why not ? ” demanded the gobbler, in sur- 
prise. 

“ Because,” replied Donald, with a groan, “ I 
have just had my dinner, and I’m too full of you 
to run.” 

So the gobbler kindly and considerately slack- 
ened his pace to a walk, and the two proceeded 
out of the barnyard and across a wide meadow to 


95 


Wishbone Valley. 

a little valley surrounded by a dense thicket. The 
moon was just rising, and the thicket was silvered 
by its light, while the dry leaves rustled weirdly in 
the cold, crisp air. 

“This,” said the gobbler, “is Wishbone Val- 
ley. Look and see.” 

Donald strained his eyes, and, sure enough, 
there were wishbones sticking out of the ground 
in every direction. He thought they looked like 
little croquet hoops, but he made no comments, 
for fear of offending the old gobbler. But he felt 
that he must say something to make the gobbler 
think that he was not frightened, so he remarked,, 
in an off-hand way, 

“ Let’s break one and make a wish.” 

The ghost of the old gobbler frowned, drew 
himself up, and uttered a ghostly whistle that 
seemed to cut the air. As he did so, the ghosts 
of the other turkeys long since eaten popped out 
of the thickets with a great flapping of wings, and 
each one perched upon a wishbone and gazed 
upon poor Donald, who was so frightened that 
his collar flew into a standing position, while he 
stood upon his toes, with his knees knocking to- 
gether at a great rate. 

Every turkey fixed its eyes upon the trembling 
boy, who was beside himself with fear. 


9 6 Wishbone Valley. 

“What shall we do with him, grandpapa?” 
asked the gobbler of an ancient bird that could 
scarcely contain itself and remain on its wishbone. 

“ I can not think of anything terrible enough, 
Willie,” replied the grandparent. “ It almost 
makes my ghostship boil when I think of the way 
in which he used to amuse himself by making me 
a target for his bean-shooter. Often when I was 
asleep in the button-ball he would fetch me one 
on the side of the head that would give me an ear- 
ache for a week. But now it is our turn.” 

Here the other turkeys broke into a wild chorus 
of approval. 

“ Take his bean-shooter from his pocket,” sug- 
gested another bird, “and let’s have a shot at 
him.” 

Donald was compelled to hand out his bean- 
shooter, and the grandparent took it, lay on his 
back, and, with the handle of the bean-shooter in 
one claw, and the missile end in the other, began 
to send pebbles at Donald at a great rate. He 
could hear them whistling past his ears, but could 
not see them to dodge. Fortunately none struck 
him, and when the turkeys felt that they had had 
fun enough of that kind at his expense, the bean- 
shooter was returned to him. 

“Now then,” said the gobbler’s Aunt Fanny, 


Wishbone Valley. 97 

“ he once gave me a string of yellow beads for 
corn.” 

“ What shall we do to him for that? ” asked the 
gobbler. 

“ Make him eat a lot of yellow beads,” said the 
chorus. 

“ But we have no beads,” said the gobbler, 
sadly. 

“ Then let’s poke him with a stick,” suggested 
the gobbler’s Granduncle Sylvester ; “ he used to 
do that to us.” 

So they all took up their wishbones and poked 
Donald until he was sore. Sometimes they would 
hit him in a ticklish spot, and throw him into such 
a fit of laughter that they thought he was enjoying 
it all and chaffing them. So they stuck their wish- 
bones into the ground, and took their positions on 
them once more, to take a needed rest, for the 
poor ghosts were greatly exhausted. 

There was one quiet turkey who had taken no 
part in the proceedings. 

“ Why don’t you suggest something ? ” de- 
manded Uncle Sylvester. 

“ Because,” replied the quiet turkey, “ Donald 
never did anything to me, and I must treat him 
accordingly. I was raised and killed a long way 
from here, and canned. Donald’s father bought 


98 Wishbone Valley. 

me at a store. To be a ghost in good standing I 
should be on the farm where I was killed, and 
really I don’t know why I should be here.” 

“ Then you should be an impartial judge,” said 
Aunt Fanny. “ Now what shall we do with him ? ” 

“ Tell them to let me go home,” protested Don- 
ald, “ and I’ll agree never to molest or eat turkey 
again ; I will give them all the angle- worms I can 
dig every day, and on Thanksgiving day I’ll ask 
my father to have roast beef.” 

“ I think,” replied the impartial canned ghost 
“ that as all boys delight in chasing turkeys with 
sticks, it would be eminently just and proper for 
us, with the exception of myself, to chase this boy 
and beat him with our wishbones, to let him learn 
by experience that which he could scarcely learn 
by observation.” 

“ What could I do but eat turkey when it was 
put on the table ? ” protested Donald. 

“ But you could help chasing us around with 
sticks,” sang the chorus. 

They thereupon descended from the wishbones 
upon which they had been perching, and flying 
after him, darted the wishbones, which they held 
in their beaks, into his back and neck as hard 
as they could. Donald ran up and down Wish- 
bone Valley, calling upon them to stop, and de- 


Wishbone Valley. 


99 


daring that if turkey should ever be put upon the 
table again he would eat nothing but the stuffing. 
When Donald found that the wishbones were 
sticking into his neck like so many hornet stings, 
he made up his mind that he would run for the 
house. Finally the wishbone tattoo stopped, and 
when he looked around, the gobbler, who was 
twenty feet away, said : “ When a Thanksgiving 
turkey dies, his ghost comes down here to Wish- 
bone Valley to join his ancestors, and it never after 
leaves the valley. You will now know why every 
spring the turkeys steal down here to hatch their 
little ones. As you are now over the boundary 
line you are safe.” 

“ Thank you,” said Donald, gratefully. 

“ Good-bye,” sang all the ghosts in chorus. 

There was then a great ghostly flapping and 
whistling, and the turkeys and wishbones all van- 
ished from sight. 

Donald ran home as fast as his trembling legs 
could carry him, and fancied that the surviving 
turkeys on the place made fun of him as he passed 
on his way. 

When he reached the house he was very happy, 
but made no allusion to his experience in Wish- 
bone Valley, for fear of being laughed at. 

“ Come, Donald,” said his mother, shortly after 


IOO 


Wishbone Valley. 

his arrival, “ it is almost bedtime ; you had better 
eat that drumstick and retire.” 

“ I think I have had turkey enough for to-day,” 
replied Donald, with a shudder, “ and if it is just 
the same, I would rather have a nice thick piece 
of pumpkin pie.” 

So the girl placed a large piece of pie before 
him; and while eating with the keen appetite 
given him by the crisp air of Wishbone Valley, 
he heard a great clattering of hoofs coming down 
the road. These sounds did not stop until the 
express-wagon drew up in front of the house, 
and the driver brought in a large package for 
Donald. 

“ Hurrah !” shouted Donald, in boundless glee. 
“ Uncle Arthur has sent me a nice bicycle. Wasn’t 
it good of him ? ” 

“ Didn’t you wish for a bicycle to-day, when you 
got the big end of the wishbone ? ” asked his lit- 
tle sister Grace. 

“ What makes you think so ? ” asked Donald, 
with a laugh. 

“ Oh, I knew it all the time ; and my wish came 
true, too.” 

“ How could your wish come true ? ” asked Don- 
ald, with a puzzled look, “ when you got the little 
half of the wishbone ? ” 


IOI 


Wishbone Valley. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Grace, “ but my wish 
did come true.” 

“ And what did you wish ? ” 

“ Why,” said Grace, running up and kissing her 
little brother affectionately, “ I wished your wish 
would come true, of course.” 






The Turtle’s Story 

























The Turtle’s Story. 


I AM a land-turtle with a dark brown shell. I 
weigh about five pounds, and I acknowledge my- 
self to be a very lazy, good-for-nothing turtle. 
Perhaps I ought to call myself a tortoise and be 
dignified ; but I don’t take myself as seriously as 
most unimportant people do, and, therefore, “ tur- 
tle ” is title enough for me. 

I often think I am very unfortunate in being a 
turtle, because I am constantly being picked up 
and carried home by boys. A bird can fly away, 
and a rabbit can run away, — even from a boy, — 
but I can not. If the boy sees me, I am lost — I 
mean found. Most people think I am well off be- 
cause I live in a hard shell. Yet of what use is a 
shell, after I am caught ? I should greatly prefer 
wings or fleetness of foot. A shell may be very 
nice ; but when a squirrel, we’ll say, has escaped 
from the clutches of a boy, I don’t believe that 
squirrel sits down and cries because he is not cov- 
ered with a shell. If I wish to go through a crev- 


io 6 The Turtle’s Story. 

ice on my travels, and am too wide for it, I can’t 
squeeze through, but have to go and find one that 
fits me, or change my course. 

One day a little boy named Geoffrey Wood 
caught me as I was going across a garden path. I 
know his name, because he asked a comrade how it 
would look cut on my under shell with a jack-knife. 

The comrade thought it would improve my gen- 
eral appearance ; accordingly, I was placed on my 
back in the boy’s lap and wedged between his 
knees, while he did the carving. I was greatly 
afraid, while the operation was being performed, 
that the knife might slip, and cut off one of my feet. 
A dog may be happy on three legs, or a soldier on 
one, but it is different with a turtle. With a foot 
off, I should be fit only for a paper-weight. 

After the boy had cut the G. , he thought he did 
not pine for so rich a harvest of blisters on his 
fingers as his entire name would have yielded ; so 
he simply cut his initials on me, and stuffed me 
into his coat-pocket, with his knife, a fish-line, a 
top, and some shoemaker’s wax. 

When he reached the house, I was put on the 
floor to walk, but I kept well within my shell. 
Then he put me in the bath-tub, and turned on 
the water. This obliged me to come out in order 
to save myself from a watery grave. My fright 


The Turtle’s Story. 107 

and consternation caused Geoffrey and his friend 
to shout with delight, and I longed to be turned 
into a snapping-turtle and have just one chance at 
them ! 

Then Geoffrey’s sister came along and rescued 
me. She said it would be a good idea to boil me 
out of my shell, and use the latter for a sugar- 
scoop. I shut up for reflection. But she turned 
me over, and saw the G. W. cut upon my shell. 
She immediately concluded that I had at one 
time been the private pet of George Washington, 
and was, therefore, too valuable as an antiquity to 
be boiled. In her excitement, she put me on the 
back steps, while she went in to look for her patri- 
otic father ; and I lost no time in moving out of 
the way. 

But on the very next morning, I was picked up 
again ; this time by a little boy in frocks, who 
hitched me to a toy wagon with cord. 

I did not mind this very much, because I was 
not hurt nor roughly handled. I managed to 
crawl under a fence when the boy was not looking, 
and was traveling off as fast as possible, when I 
was suddenly stopped by the wagon, which was 
too large to follow me. I was recovered, taken 
into the house, wrapped up in a piece of cloth, 
and put on a shelf. 


108 The Turtle’s Story. 

The boy’s father, having heard him call me a 
land oyster, on account of my shell, took me off 
the shelf and told him all about me, referring oc- 
casionally to a book. Then he spoke my name in 
Latin, and gave a general history of me, using 
very high-sounding words. I admit that I felt 
much larger than usual. I felt, in fact, like com- 
ing out of my shell. 

But, may I be converted into combs, paper- 
knives, breast-pins, and watch-chains if I can un- 
derstand how the man that wrote that book ever 
found out so much about me, unless he was once a 
turtle himself, which I scarcely believe. 

Here I aril again, draggingthe toy wagon about, 
all loaded with dolls, tops, and things. Now, while 
the little boy is not looking, I will bite the string. 
Once more I am a free turtle, and away I go for 
yonder currant-bush ! 

I am there, and the boy can't find me. I shall 
wait till dark, and plunge into yonder wood, and 
never leave it. If ever I do, may I, as I just said, 
be converted into tortoise-shell combs, tortoise- 
shell bracelets, and tortoise-shell cats ! 


























4 



















































































































slaavbang 



and other 
storiest 
RICH 
Arp ken 

PALL AVV7N - 
KYTYFMOIA 


New York 

R. H. RUSSELL 


